


My Funny Valentine

by Burning_Up_A_Sun



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Mush, Fluff and Smut, Funny, Love, M/M, Valentine Fluff, Valentine's Day, winterMystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 18:49:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Up_A_Sun/pseuds/Burning_Up_A_Sun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Gregory and Mycroft's first Valentine's Day together, and what gift does Gregory have for Mycroft? And how wrong can things go for these two?</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Funny Valentine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WingedWhale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingedWhale/gifts).



> My thanks and apologies to SM/MG for creating these amazing characters for me to play with.  
> This is a story for http://rainbowwingedwhale.tumblr.com/

For the third time in 45 minutes, Mycroft tidied the sitting room that hadn't needed tidying the first time. Straightened the sofa cushions. Refolded the blanket and replaced it over the back of the sofa. Fluffed and repositioned the throw pillows. My God. He hadn't been this nervous since...ever.  
  
Valentine's day. With Gregory. Their first.  


He repositioned the tea tray on the coffee table and reconsidered the heart-cracker and cheese appetizers he had thought were whimsical and now seemed ridiculous. Gregory was 45 minutes late with no word. Had he changed his mind? He had changed his mind. About them. He wasn't coming. Tea. The tea must be cold by now.  
  
Empty the tea pot and fill the kettle. Nothing soothes a broken heart like a cup of tea. 'No,' he thought, standing up taller and tugging his jumper down to straighten it. 'I am Mycroft Holmes. I do not get a _'broken heart'._ _.._

He set his face and took a deep breath. Things were much less complicated alone. Alone was good. Alone protected him.

“And my heart,” he said aloud.  
  
“Did you say something? I'm sorry I'm late,” Greg's voice called from the foyer as he closed the front door and walked to the kitchen. “You know how my ex-wife Jen snipes at me...”  
  
He saw it immediately in Mycroft's face, the mixture of anguish and relief.  
  
“My, I'm OK, see I'm fine,” Greg said, taking Mycroft's hands in his.

“Yes, I know,” Mycroft, eyes closed, managed to say. “I...”  
  
"What is it honey? You knew I was coming, right?”

Greg understood the instant his mind registered the small, almost unseeable tell of Mycroft's jaw muscle twitching. “Mycroft, baby...” Gregory wrapped him in a hug, hoping to convince him, to break down Mycroft's final wall. “Let me say this please. I will never play games with you. Ever. For 20 years someone I loved lied, cheated and abused my trust. I will never do that. I will always be honest, even if it hurts us.”

Mycroft lifted his head and nodded. He brushed his lips across Greg's, a chaste kiss of faith and welcome.  
  
“Mmmmm. Happy Valentine's Day, Valentine,” Greg said and kissed Mycroft in a way that was decidedly not chaste.  
  
His hand drifted to Mycroft's arse, pulling him even closer, pressing their bodies together, but Mycroft said, “Oh God, we...can't. Dinner...and...” Form a thought, dammit Mycroft!  
  
“I wanted you to know _how_ glad I am to be home,” Gregory said nuzzling Mycroft's neck.  
  
 _Home._  
  
Mycroft had set the dining room table with his great-grandmother's linens, crystal and china, but Gregory walked past it into the sitting room to the crackling fire. “The table is beautiful, but would you mind... I was thinking... could we sit in front of the fireplace and eat? It's warmer and well, sweeter,” Greg said, popping heart shaped cheese and cracker into his mouth.  
  
“Sweet. Not a word I would have thought a grizzled detective inspector would use,” Mycroft teased as he brought two china and silver settings to the coffee table.  
  
“Be nice you arse or this grizzled detective inspector will put you in a head lock,” Greg laughed, heading to the kitchen to help bring the food.  
  
“Sounds promising,” Mycroft leered, raising eyebrow. “Sir, dinner is part of your Valentine's present. You arrange the seating, and I'll bring the food.”  
  
Gregory angled the couch toward the fireplace and leaned two of its overstuffed cushions against its base. He relaxed against the cushions and picked at the crackers and cheese while he waited for Mycroft to join him.  
  
Mycroft came through the French doors leading into the sitting room. He had placed on his tray two wine goblets, a bottle of 2001 St. Emilion Bordeaux and their meal—hidden under tented aluminum foil.  
  
“It smells wonderful,” Greg said, drawing in the aroma.  
  
“Close your eyes. I'll tell you when to open them.” Mycroft placed a breakfast tray on its short legs on the floor in front of Gregory. “Open your eyes...” Two individual ramekins offered old fashioned, homemade cottage pie, just as Greg had described one pub night as his favorite comfort meal: minced beef and carrots and diced tomatoes (no onions!) covered in piped mashed potatoes (no cheddar cheese!) and baked until the potatoes are browned (not too much!). 

“Mycroft Holmes. How?! This is my...How did you...” Greg said, looking at the man who had “listened carefully to a comment thrown away in a conversation weeks ago. Greg dipped his fork into the pie and declared it even better that his mum's.  
  
Mycroft was inordinately happy at that moment. He topped off their wine and hid his smile in his wineglass.  
  
While they ate, Greg shared most of the reason he was late.  
  
“Every year since Emma was born, I have taken her out on Valentine's Day. Even when she was an infant, we went out,” he explained. “Since this was the first after I moved out, I wanted her to know I'm still part of her life. We decided on something simple, just hot cocoa at the Starbucks in Sainsbury's. I just wanted to talk to Emma, see how she was really doing.  


“But Jennifer showed up about five minutes in. She is pure poison. I tried to explain to her that it was Da and Daughter, but she wouldn't leave. She didn't miss a chance to snipe at me about moving out or about my new secret lover. She was fishing for information _or_ trying to start a fight. It never really matters with her.” Hands clenching and unfurling, Greg tried to keep his voice neutral. “I refused to take the bait. I kept trying to talk to Emma, but she knew what her mum was doing and shut down. We gave up and I took them home.”  
  
Mycroft stood to clear the dishes, but Gregory reached for his hand. “Please sit here. With me.” When Mycroft repositioned himself against the cushions, Greg leaned his head on Mycroft's shoulders and let out a long, slow breath to remove the specter of his ex-wife from the house. They settled in, Greg regulating his breathing, and Mycroft reveling in the wonder of this time.  
  
Silence was new for Mycroft, who spent every workday filtering information from the Prime Minister, members of parliament, directors of departments. Emails, websites, phone calls, texts. But Gregory learned early in his marriage to decompress before walking in the front door. Too many nights he'd been banished to the sofa because he'd come home overstressed and wound up in a nasty fight with Jennifer. In the beginning, Mycroft scoffed at the quiet time, thinking it was a weakness. Now, he appreciated its very wisdom.  
  
As the fire died down, more glow than flames, Greg slowly released another big breath and squeezed Mycroft's hand. "Thank you, love," he said. "And Happy Valentine's!" He stroked Mycroft's cheek and leaned in to wish good tidings properly.  
  
"Beautiful," Mycroft hummed as Greg stroked his neck, his hair, the faint beginning of his winter beard. He wasn't sure this year--it already seemed a touch more grey than ginger.  
  
"Are you keeping it?" Greg asked, kissing his lover's jaw, nuzzling up behind Mycroft's ear to lazily trace the curve of it with the tip of his tongue.  
  
"I don't know yet. Do you like it?" Mycroft _thought_ he spoke the words aloud. When Gregory touched him, kissed him like this, his brain stopped.  
  
Gregory did like it.  
  
He showed Mycroft just how much.  
  
“I have a Valentine's gift for you, Mycroft,” Greg said finally, retrieving his gift bag from the coat hooks near the front door.  
  
“Although Valentine's Day is an artificial construct created by greeting card companies to sell additional merchandise...open mine first.” Mycroft pulled a Selfridge's signature yellow and white gift box from under the end table. He hid his excitement as he handed the box to Greg.  
  
Unwrapping the yellow polka dotted tissue paper Greg said, “Gloves. They're perfect!” They did fit him beautifully, “Oh and I can text with them on!” 

Mycroft beamed and said, “Look under the additional tissue paper”

Greg unwrapped further and found a black cashmere scarf, a low key check that would complement the black trench coat he wore at work. He would expect nothing less from something Mycroft purchased.

“This is the most...this is the best...I've never...” Greg couldn't speak. In 20 years of marriage, his ex had never given him a gift with as much thought and love. He had years of Old Spice gift sets to prove it--even though he had never actually worn it.  
  
He embraced Mycroft, trying to explain how much this thought-filled gift meant. A brief kiss, and Greg said, “Now, your turn.” Out of the bag he took a small gift, the perfect size for a watch or a bracelet. The gift had been wrapped with love but not great talent; clearly Gregory had wrapped it himself. That meant even more.  
  
“No deducing, Mycroft,” Greg admonished. “Besides, you would be wrong, so you might as well just open it!”  
  
Mycroft knew a gift box for jewelry when he saw one and just last week, his watch had given out while they were at dinner. This was child's play, but he would humor Gregory.  
  
“If you insist,” he said with a dramatic sigh. He slid his thumb nail carefully under the tape at one short end, dislodging the tape. He turned the box and slid his nail under the other piece, dislodging it and then moved to the center piece on the long seam.  
  
“FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, you are killing me,” Greg said, balling his fists so he wouldn't grab the gift and shred the paper.  
  
“Hush,” Mycroft said. He was enjoying this, opening a gift someone had taken time to buy themselves, rather than sending a nanny or a blogger. Even if he already knew what the box contained.  
  
Greg bit his lower lip, waiting as Mycroft slid the paper off and opened the box. This was the most important gift he'd ever given anyone.  
  
“This is the best cotton I've ever received, Gregory. Thank you!” Mycroft teased, facing a layer of batting when he opened the box.  
  
“Git.”  
  
Mycroft opened the box, having already decided on the “I love this watch! It's perfect!” face and response.  
  
He lifted the batting and nestled in the box was one blue, foil-wrapped square with a circular impression. Kimono MicroThin. Not a watch. SO not a watch. Process. Process this Mycroft. A condom. As a gift.  
  
Mycroft looked at Gregory. In confusion. For the first time in his life.  
  
Gregory leaned closer to Mycroft and looked into Mycroft's eyes. He used his kiss to say what he couldn't find words to explain.  
  
“We haven't been together long, but I have never felt like this about anyone. Would you make love to me?”  
  
Mycroft sat silent, staring at this detective who had stolen all that he was: solitary, independent, aloof. Stolen it away and left him this open, vulnerable, caring human. He wanted to hate whom he had become. But he couldn't, because he was so much better with Gregory.  
  
“I...” Mycroft attempted to speak, but words wouldn't form. Kissing Gregory face, his neck, his hands, Mycroft repositioned the cushions and urged Greg down onto those soft but awkwardly overstuffed pillows.  
  
He wanted to be gentle and loving and romantic. Gregory deserved that. But the condom, a small, nondescript gift, spoke volumes. In this, Greg's first gay relationship, he had been clear that he would top. The one to take Mycroft. And he had been, many times. But tonight, he had offered himself, all of himself, professing his complete love. No more boundaries existed in their relationship.  
  
And frankly, that was hot as hell.  
  
He kissed Gregory with more passion, his hands working to unbutton his lover's shirt. Dammit. Why are there so many buttons?  
  
Greg felt the same, fumbling to free Mycroft from the jumper, the cotton button down, the vest.  
  
“For Christ's sake,” Greg said, still kissing Mycroft where his lips could reach skin. “Why do we wear so fucking many clothes?”  
  
They broke apart and removed their jumpers, shirts, belts, trousers, even socks--all went flying in the process of getting down to pants.  
  
Mycroft was first to remove his trousers, and Greg couldn't contain a remark about Mycroft's red pants.  
  
But all Mycroft could thing about was loving Gregory. Completely. And, well, pounding his ass hard enough that Greg would come just from the friction of Mycroft's flat belly.  
  
Without removing his mouth from Greg's and with no reduction in passion, Mycroft urged Greg back down onto the cushions, wanting his skin to rest atop Greg's as quickly as possible.  
  
“Gregory, you must shift a bit or...” As Greg moved, his body pushed the cushions apart and his head cracked on the hardwood floor.  
  
"Goddammit! Ouch! My head," Greg yelped, pushing Mycroft up.  
  
Mycroft gasped. "Oh my God, I'm sorry! Did I knee you?!"  
  
"Not THAT head. This one," and he pointed to his scalp. "You pushed me between the cushions, and I cracked my head on your floor!"  
"I did no such thing! Did I? I'm so sorry." Mycroft, caught up in the passion, missed the obvious. He kissed Greg's head in apology." Is that better?"  
  
"Yes, but maybe you should kiss the other one too, just to be safe," Greg suggested, waggling his eyebrows.  
  
Mycroft beamed a smile and unzipped Greg's trousers. "How's your head?" He asked, nuzzling the cock straining against the white cotton pants.  
  
“Better. Much better now,” Greg said, brushing his hand against Mycroft's hair, wanting a connection.  
  
Mycroft slid the elastic waist band carefully up and over Greg's cock, and Greg raised his hips to help. Mycroft kissed each of Greg's knees as he brought the pants down, and then he spread Greg's legs and kissed up his inner thigh to fully hard cock.  
  
Greg could feel Mycroft's own cock on his thigh, as it pushed insistently at his Y fronts.  
  
Tongue tracing. Swirling, flicking at the wetness that pooled at the top. As Mycroft lowered his head to swallow Greg, the voice, thick and deep, interrupted him.  
  
“Baby, let's go upstairs. Mmmmm, good, yes, thought was... mmmm bed...softer...we're not as young... as we used to be....” Greg stumbled. Forming words through the haze of this heat was almost beyond his ability.  
  
“Speak for yourself, old man,” Mycroft said, with empty mouth. “I'm as young as I've ever been.”  
  
“Prove it,” Greg challenged, thinking it would include a mouth, a cock and hopefully, maybe some inventive toys.  
  
“Fine! Last one upstairs is bottom!” and uncharacteristically, Mycroft jumped up, and headed across the hardwood floor and across to the stairs before Greg could even stand.  
  
From this position, he couldn't see over the couch.  
  
But he could hear Mycroft. “I'm going to wiiiiiiiiiiiii....” **thunk.**  
  
And he heard Mycroft hit the floor.  
  
After checking that Mycroft was unbloodied and unbroken, Greg laughed. A huge, doubled over, body shaking, full laugh.  
  
Mycroft sniffed his disapproval. “I do hope you are not laughing at me. I am grievously injured. I wrapped my elbow when I slipped.”  
  
“No,” Greg squeaked out between breaths. “Just this sock you slid on...you tossed it when you were getting undressed.” He reached a hand out to Mycroft and helped him up...and then pushed past him to race up the stairs.  
“The indignity of slipping on a sock notwithstanding, I will win this race,” Mycroft said as he flew up the stairs and caught Greg in a bear hug, because he had slowed down to be sure Mycroft was really not hurt. Before Greg could move, Mycroft reminded him, “Remember. I know thirteen ways to kill you with just two fingers.”  
  
“Hell you know 13 ways to kill me with just your mouth,” Gregory said, and kissed Mycroft passionately as he drew his hands down to Mycroft's arse and squeezed.  
  
“Mmmmm that feels good,” Mycroft said, pulling in closer to Greg, and moving his hands to Greg's shoulders.  
  
“Ha! Sucker!” and Greg slipped out of Mycroft's grasp, and into the bedroom, hurling himself onto the bed.  
  
“You win fair and square,” Mycroft said as he limped into the room.  
  
“Did you hurt your knee? Are you okay?” Gregory asked, finally actually concerned about Mycroft's earlier fall.  
  
“Yes, I do think I wrenched it,” Mycroft said. “Could you help me get to the bed?”  
  
“Not on your life, old man,” Gregory said. “I know that trick too well.”  
  
“Bollocks,” Mycroft laughed. “Did I almost have you, though?” He walked to the bed without limp or injury.  
  
“Oh absolutely,” Gregory said, without a hint of sincerity, as he reached out to wrap his arms around Mycroft. “Happy Valentine's Day.” He buried his head into Mycroft's neck, taking in his scent: lemon and citrus and cedar, stronger from the exertion.  
  
Mycroft leaned Gregory back onto the tartan comforter, this time ensuring Gregory's head hit a pillow rather than something hard.  
  
Heated kisses, hands brushing, finding. Gregory helped Mycroft remove his red pants, making sure to throw them far from the bed, so no one would slip again. In a quick move, Mycroft slid Gregory over and atop him. “You won. Make love to me.”  
  
“Not tonight. Tonight is about you,” Greg whispered, kissing Mycroft's neck, sucking at his collar bone forcefully enough to leave a mark. “I did that,” he said. “You are mine, Mycroft Holmes. And I'm yours. Fuck me now. Please.” Gregory's eyes, his breath, everything spoke of desire and need and things deeper.  
  
Mycroft rolled over and reached for the bedside table, opening the drawer for a condom. Rifling around, under the paid bills, birthday cards, and empty lube bottles.  
  
“Gregory, I cannot believe this. We are out of condoms,” Mycroft sighed and rolled back atop Greg.  
  
“There's the one I gave you tonight,” Gregory whispered. “Budge over. I'll get it.” Greg, his cock hard and needy, shifted off the bed and down the stairs to retrieve the condom from the coffee table in front of the fire.  
  
“Be careful of the... ( **thud** )...sock.” Mycroft shouted the reminder too late to save Gregory the indignity of slipping on the same nylon sock.  
  
Mycroft leapt out of bed and ran down the stairs, stopped to see Gregory, flat on his back, shaking his head in disbelief. He stepped over the body, retrieved the condom from the box on the table and returned to Gregory.  
  
Raised eyebrow, stifling a laugh, extended hand.  
  
“Ouch...,” Greg said, rubbing his lower back.  
  
“I'm sorry I laughed. Let's get you upstairs,” Mycroft said and guided Gregory back upstairs and, pulling down the duvet and sheet, helped him into bed. Mycroft placed the condom package on the nightstand and slipped into bed behind Gregory.  
  
He curved his body to match Gregory's, and draped his right arm over his waist. With his head on Greg's shoulder, he said, “I'm sorry that you're hurt. Let's just go to sleep.”  
  
He snuggled in closer and kissed Greg's shoulders and neck.  
  
“I'm so sorry,” Greg said, shaking his head. “This went so badly. It wasn't supposed to be like this.” He kissed Mycroft's palm and wiggled back even closer. “Bloody Valentine's Day.”  
  
“It's been the best Valentine's Day of my life,” Mycroft said simply. “We are together. I couldn't ask for more than that. I love you.”  
  
Greg caught his breath. “What?”  
  
“Yes. I love you. Didn't you know that?” Mycroft hugged him tighter.  
  
Gregory shifted to his back and turned his face to Mycroft, into his eyes. He slid his hand behind Mycroft's neck and brought their lips together, softly. Slowly. Deeply. Hands explored and brought their cocks back to fullness. Gingerly, ensuring that he didn't re-injure head or elbow or back, Mycroft slipped on top of Gregory.  
  
“Am I hurting you? Are you alright?” Mycroft asked, looking into Gregory's face.  
  
“I am good. Better than good. Brilliant.”  
  
Mycroft rolled his hips against Gregory's, smooth skin of hard cock stroking the other, slowly, seductively. Their bodies begged them for more friction.

  
Mycroft rolled onto the mattress at Gregory's right side, and reached for the lube. He flipped open the cap and squeezed a bit onto his palm. He rolled back onto his left side and said, “Face me, love.”  
  
Greg turned on his side and faced Mycroft, stroking his cheek with his thumb. Mycroft looked in his eyes, and Gregory slid his hand into Mycroft's hair and pulled him closer. His lips brushed Mycroft's at the same time that Mycroft's slicked hand grasped his cock. The sensations of the kiss and the hand pulling at the two cocks at one time overtook Gregory.  
  
“Christ, My, I am not going to last,” Greg said, speaking through the kisses and teeth.  
  
“Come for me, love. Do that for me,” Mycroft said, rolling his hips and stroking. With Gregory biting his neck, his shoulder, Mycroft wouldn't last much longer either. Mycroft flicked his fist over their cock heads at the same moment that Gregory thrust his hips. He could feel the tightness in his balls, growing, swelling, until with a “Fuck!” muffled by Mycroft's neck, Greg came, warm and thick over their cocks and Mycroft's hand. The beauty of Gregory's shudders, the way he moaned and cursed settled in Mycroft's balls, and he came seconds after, his come mingling with Gregory's. Their bellies were sticky from sweat and ejaculate, but neither moved, holding onto each other, heads bowed, meeting at the forehead.  
  
“I feel the same way, Mycroft,” Greg whispered. “I just didn't want to bog us down or change us, if you didn't want a relationship. I would rather have you as a shag mate than not in my life at all.” He moved his head to look at Mycroft; his hands were too messy from lube and come and sweat to touch Mycroft, but he rubbed foreheads and stroked Mycroft's face with his own.  
  
“I'm not,” Mycroft said. “I mean, I wasn't. I never met anyone I wanted to spend time with, whom I could even tolerate, except Sherlock and he's barely that.” Greg chuckled until he realized Mycroft was serious. “You are the first, Gregory. The first person whom I have loved as an adult.” Mycroft rolled onto his back and off the bed. He padded into the bathroom and came back with a warm, damp flannel, and gently cleaned Gregory's belly and his soft cock.  
  
“The man who holds the free world in his hands is tidying me up,” Greg teased, as Mycroft carefully moved Greg's cock to wipe under it. “Oi! Careful! You could well kill me with those two fingers--”  
  
“One if I had to, but I only know six ways to do that. With two fingers, I have at least double the ways....” To underline his point, with two fingers, Mycroft lifted Greg's awakening cock, gliding up the underside, to the tip.

 Gregory moaned a sigh. “Well, that _would_ be the best way to go,” he said, sitting up and pulling Mycroft closer for a kiss. “Death from Mycroft overdose. Happy Valentine's Day,” Gregory said to his love, who couldn't respond, because his mouth was otherwise happily occupied.

 

 


End file.
